


John's Nightmare

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, F/M, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5316236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slave John still has the occasional bad dream, but at least now he has just one master and a fellow slave to provide comfort, of a sort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

Explosions, shouting, gunfire. Chaos, a sick feeling of failure and dread, fire ripping through his shoulder. The need to get up, get out, find everyone, not let them down—

John’s eyes popped open in the dark room. He panted heavily but didn’t dare move until the disorientation passed and he remembered where he was. _Safe_ , he tried to tell himself. _I’m safe, no one’s shooting at me, no one’s depending on me, I haven’t done anything wrong._

Safe as a slave in a foreign country, with a master who caused pain for fun. _You’re not going to get in trouble, John_ , said Sherlock’s voice in his head. _You’re just doing what I told you to do. Relax, and trust your master…_

John rolled onto his back, needing more air, and immediately a stabbing pain went up his leg. He stifled a groan with difficulty and curled up protectively—it wasn’t just the pain, it was the _return_ of the pain, which he thought he’d gotten rid of, that filled him with despair.

Of course, there was a knock on his door right then, and Molly popped through the doorway—hair mussed, cheeks flushed, barely wearing Sherlock’s shirt and nothing else. “John? Are you awake? Sherlock says to come play with us!”

John did not always respond enthusiastically. Sometimes he grumbled about the hour and his lack of sleep, because Sherlock would expect him up first thing to work on a case, and anyway he didn’t like to make it _too_ easy for the other man. Because really once John got in sight of those bold blue eyes, he gave up resisting immediately.

So Molly expected him to sit up right away, even if he groused about it. But this time he didn’t.

“Um, could you tell him—“ What _could_ you tell Sherlock, to keep him at bay? “Tell him not tonight, alright? Please?”

Molly would willingly convey that message, for all the good it would do. “Alright. But what’s wrong? Did you eat that dodgy sushi again?”

“No, no. My leg hurts,” John confessed, turning his head away from her. His hands clenched into fists with the effort of not rubbing his leg, which didn’t help except to make him feel like he was _doing_ something. “Just—leave me out tonight, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll tell him,” Molly promised, dashing away. Her tone suggested she knew as well as John that this wasn’t over yet.

John let out the breath he’d been holding and tried to make himself relax, tried to remember the different techniques he’d learned for managing the phantom pain. Funny country, scheduled for execution but they wanted him to recover from his injuries first, as much as possible anyway. The therapist they’d assigned him hadn’t really seen the irony in teaching him long-term coping strategies; apparently she was right in the end.

He heard Sherlock enter the room and knew he was standing over the bed, assessing, deducing. Finally John couldn’t take it anymore and opened his eyes. Sherlock’s trousers were hanging off his narrow hips and he held a riding crop absently in his hand as he looked John over. He had a thoroughly debauched look about him—but then he always did—and John was tempted to respond. But the merest twitch sent a flame of pain through his leg.

“Why does your leg hurt?” Sherlock wanted to know.

“I had a nightmare,” John replied matter-of-factly. “Can you please just let me sleep?” He closed his eyes again.

Something poked at his leg and the pain rippled out from the point of contact. John gasped and rolled to the side, curling up again with his back to Sherlock. “F—k! Did you—“ He glanced over his shoulder angrily, noting that the riding crop had changed position slightly. “I’m not _faking_ , okay, you sadistic git! Leave me alone.”

Sherlock swatted his rear end with the riding crop, though not hard. “Don’t call your master a git.”

“Sorry.”

“I _am_ going to let you sleep, John,” Sherlock declared, “but you’re going to sleep with us. Come on.”

“Why,” John sighed helplessly.

“To reduce the recurrence of nightmares,” Sherlock claimed confidently. “You’ve never had a nightmare when we were all sleeping together.”

“Please do not experiment on me!” It was more of a warning than a plea.

“It’s just _sleeping_ , John,” Sherlock told him patronizingly. “Something you always say I need more of.” He stretched lazily, using the riding crop to scratch a spot in the middle of his back. John watched the play of muscles almost against his will. “Come on, you can lean on Molly.” The young woman had buttoned up the shirt and put on pants, apparently having been warned about the change in plans, and she smiled helpfully from the doorway. Sherlock traded places with her in the small room and John began to feel the inevitable take hold.

“Alright, fine,” he agreed with a heavy sigh. He steeled himself and rolled back over, then sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He’d lived with this pain day in and day out for months and he’d _managed_ , so walking from one room to the next ought to be doable. Molly obligingly slipped under his arm but he tried not to lean on her too heavily as they maneuvered slowly down the hall to Sherlock’s room.

“You can be in the middle,” Sherlock directed John, pointing at the bed with the riding crop. It was somewhat reminiscent of a general dictating a battle plan. “Molly will be on this side, and I will be over here. That will make you feel secure.”

“I would feel more secure if you put the riding crop away,” John responded, trying to scoot into the desired location without using his leg too much.

Sherlock chucked the instrument carelessly over his shoulder. “Molly, lights.” The room darkened and John tried to get comfortable on his side.

Molly slipped into his arms, her head against his chest. “Is this okay, John?”

“Yeah, that’s okay,” he assured her, kissing her forehead. She snuggled up contentedly.

‘Snuggling’ and ‘content’ were not really in Sherlock’s vocabulary and he pressed firmly against John’s back, one arm tight around his waist. “Okay?” he purred in John’s ear.

“You said we were just sleeping,” John reminded him.

“We are.”

“Well give me an inch of space or something.”

Sherlock huffed but scooted back marginally. “Better?”

“Thank you.”

John counted forty-five seconds of silence, more than he was expecting. “Molly sometimes has nightmares.”

“Oh, not very often,” she countered without concern. “About spiders or something. If I’ve watched one of those monster movies on the telly.”

“Not about… the past?” John asked, purposefully vague. He knew Molly had come from the streets, the rampant homeless population, and that her life at the compound was paradise in comparison. Considering slavery, prostitution, and Sherlock, that said a lot about how bad her childhood was.

“No, not really.” There was a qualifier in there somewhere, or maybe she was just sleepy.

“And _you_ don’t have nightmares at all,” John predicted of Sherlock.

“No. I’m not afraid of anything.” This was not a boast but a statement of fact. And as far as John could tell, it was actually true. But he didn’t want to believe it.

“There must be _something_ in the world you’re afraid of,” he insisted, like he always did.

“Statistically, it seems likely,” Sherlock agreed reasonably, “but I haven’t encountered it yet.”

“Rats? Zombies? Debilitating illness?”

Molly made a noise of protest. “Stop, you’re upsetting Molly,” Sherlock ordered with disapproval.

“Sorry.”

“Go to sleep, John,” Sherlock encouraged, adding grandly, “I will be here to protect you from all the zombie-rats.”

John’s eyes popped open. “Zombie-rats? Oh G-d.” For some reason in the middle of the night this combination was particularly evocative.

“You’re the one who brought—“

Molly made a more forceful noise and they both silenced immediately. John closed his eyes again and tried to concentrate on his calming phrases. _You’re safe, relax, no one’s going to hurt you, your master will protect you…_ The lesson was getting easier, he thought, feeling Sherlock’s breath on the back of his neck.

**Author's Note:**

> That's all for Nicobar. Thanks for reading!


End file.
